Джордж Пелеканос: The Sweet Forever

The demand for music was big down here. Two years earlier, a monstrous crowd had pushed through the plate glass window of Kemp Mill Records during an in-store appearance of Frankie Goes to Hollywood. That same year, when a rumor surfaced that Prince had been seen window-shopping on M Street, scores of purple-clad kids had descended on Georgetown in hopes of spotting His Royal Badness. Yeah, Marcus hated G-town, but Karras never tired of reminding him that Wisconsin and O was his top-volume store.

Karras went into the store. Donna Morgan stayed out front, lit up a smoke.

The store was narrow and deep, generally unclean and dimly lit. The new Falco, “Rock Me Amadeus,” boomed from the stereo and pumped the house. The manager, Scott, greeted Karras right away with a handshake and a smile.

“Hey, Dimitri. What’s the word?”

“Johannesburg.”

Scott was on the heavy side, his face acned from junk food. He wore his shoe polish — black hair short except for a thick lock that fell in front of his face. Marcus had complained about the look, and Karras had shrugged it off, saying it was “a Flock of Seagulls thing.” Marcus had said, “A flock of douche bags, maybe. Tell him to get his hair the fuck on out of his face.”

But Scott was a good manager, steady and into it, and Marcus soon forgot about the hair. Karras knew that protecting the good employees from Marcus’s sometimes grumpy moods was part of his job. Marcus was under a shitload of pressure these days, and Karras understood.

Karras had a quick look around. Scott was ringing a two-person line at the register. Other customers roved the store, suburban white kids with money to spend. Karras transferred the new Bananarama and the new Miami Sound Machine to the front display. He said hello to a clerk named Mary, a dark-haired Brit with whom he had tongue-wrestled at last year’s Christmas party. No regrets.

The coke was good. Karras was moving fast, he could feel the tick-tick-tick of blood through his veins; he five-slapped Mary’s palm as he passed her in the aisle.

When Scott had finished, Karras asked him to get a reading off the register. Scott did it, handed Karras the cutoff tape. The numbers were typical for a Friday. Karras dialed the U Street store, asked Cootch for Marcus.

“Marcus drove Tate home,” said Cootch.

“Marcus calls in, tell him I phoned from G-town, hear?”

“Sure thing, boss.”

“Any business over there?”

“Nothin’. They’re still out there, blockin’ the street.”

“All right, man. You take care.”

“You, too.”

Karras cradled the receiver. He clapped Scott a little too hard on the arm.

“Okay, Scott, I’m outta here. And don’t bother calling the other stores.”

“Calling the other stores?”

“Yeah, you know, like you managers always do, to warn them that I’m making the rounds. ’Cause I am gone for the day.”

“Okay, Dimitri. See you, man.”

Karras gave Mary a nice smile — you never knew — and left the store. Donna was out front, working on her second smoke.

“Come on,” said Karras.

“Where to?”

“My place. I need a quick shower. Then we’re gone.”

“Gonna have fun tonight,” said Donna.

“Gonna Wang Chung tonight,” said Karras. “Let’s go.”

Marcus Clay parked the Peugeot near Karras’s apartment, walked over to the Metro entrance north of Dupont Circle, picked up a Post on the way in, and caught a Red Line train down to Judiciary Square. Clay took a seat next to a thin guy reading a thick novel, its cover illustration depicting a submarine, an aircraft carrier, an American flag, and a hammer and sickle, all about to collide.

Clay scanned the Post ’s front page: CIA Director William Casey was pushing hard for the upcoming House vote allotting $100 million in aid to the “freedom fighters” of Nicaragua. Casey had been the key architect in promoting the Reagan Doctrine, covert paramilitary operations in Afghanistan, Cambodia, and Angola. Clay shook his head. All it took was a hostage situation in Iran for a whole generation to get gung-ho and forget the horror of Vietnam. Techno-war books, written by those who had never witnessed the violent, useless death of young men, were all the rage. Kids stood in line at the Uptown for tickets to Top Gun. Action in foreign lands, the threat of communism, it stirred the blood. Military buildup spurred the stock market and strengthened the economy. Strong economies opened the door for reelections.

Clay scanned the right-hand story above the fold: Alphonse Hill, D.C.’s deputy mayor, had resigned amidst allegations of receiving kickbacks from an out-of-town contractor. Three months earlier, Ivanhoe Donaldson, the mayor’s longtime right-hand man, pleaded guilty to stealing almost two hundred grand in city funds and to tax evasion. Donaldson drew seven years in a minimum-security Virginia prison.

Clay sighed, folded the newspaper, turned to the man on his right. “How’s it goin’?”

The man looked over, hesitantly said, “Pretty good.”

Clay had broken the Metro rule: no eye contact, no conversation with strangers. Especially not between the races.

Clay said, “Good book?”

“Great.”

“Looks very exciting,” said Clay. “It truly does.”

Clay left the train, got up on the street. He went down to the Superior Court building at 5th and Indiana, had a seat on the edge of a concrete planter, kept an eye on the main doors. Elaine would be coming through one of those doors any minute. He knew she’d be rushing out, like clockwork, to pick up Marcus Jr. at the play-school or the child-development center or whatever fancy name they were calling it this week.

Teenage boys were being hurried along by their mothers or their aunts, who scolded them or looked stone-faced ahead as they walked, the boys trying to maintain the Scowl. Older dudes, waiting for their hearings or to testify, or here to pick up buddies or relatives, stood around smoking cigarettes. Lawyers, rumpled Criminal Justice Act types, stood outside, smoking as well.

Elaine was one of the CJA attorneys, court-appointed lawyers, the ones they called the Fifth Streeters. She never looked rumpled, though, not like the others. And she didn’t have the buttoned-to-the-neck business look that so many women felt they had to adopt these days. Clay saw women all over town, looked like they had doilies hanging off the front of their dresses; Karras called them their clown outfits. None of that bib and bow tie stuff for Elaine. Elaine always looked like a woman. She always looked fine.

Yeah, Elaine would be coming out that door any second. It was different now, not like before the separation, when she used to work those crazy hours, expecting him to drop everything to pick up M.J., expecting him to leave his business while she managed her caseload. That had been one of the problems between them. One of many, and then Clay had done that Big Thing that had severed it between him and Elaine.

Here she was now.

And damn, she did look fine. Elaine wore a two-piece rust-colored suit, the skirt clinging to those long, muscular legs of hers, the jacket over a cream silk blouse. She was some kind of woman, all woman, taller than the man she walked with, some slick dude in pinstripes, powder blue shirt with white Peter Pan collar — Clay hated that elegant-running-to-dandy look — soft leather loafers on his feet.

Clay stood up, got in their path. Elaine saw him, frowned, then smiled cordially. He walked up to the two of them.

“Elaine.”

“Marcus.”

Clay cupped his hand around her arm, kissed her check. She took the kiss, pulled her arm away from his touch.

“This is Marcus,” said Elaine. “Marcus, meet Eric Williamson.”